Head in the Sand ... and other unpopular positions Read Online Free PDF

peaceful time
alone” is really a relative term. But sometimes, being “alone” with
hundreds of strangers banging on slot machines and collecting
clanking quarters in metal containers can be quieter than time at
home with six kids.
    But, that’s another adventure . . .
    See you all later with more updates. And don’t forget
the big surprise for Wayne: Oct. 17, 2:30 Pacific Time . . . when
we renew our wedding vows with Elvis himself live on the Web!
     
    Continued . . .
     

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About
Cement, But Were Afraid to Ask
     
    My husband is sitting here
in the living room in his own personal Electronic Geek Heaven: He’s
become one with the La-Z-Boy recliner, feet up, new laptop on his,
well, lap while
it whirrs and hot-syncs to his teeny tiny PDA, the television
remote control just inches away from his quivering right
hand.
    His eyes are focused on
some generic show on the History Channel, or the Discovery Channel,
or possibly the Learning Channel. Frankly, I can’t tell them apart
anymore now that they’ve melded into pretty much the same channel.
They all air the same shows but with different titles.
    On any given night, after
I say the four stupidest words in the history of womankind (“Watch
whatever you want”), I find myself knee-deep in either an hour-long
documentary on the history of concrete, or a biker-building series
where a bunch of men with greasy T-shirts and handlebar mustaches
reconstruct motorcycles out of old Budweiser cans and toilet seats
from outhouses they patronize somewhere on the outskirts of
town.
    I can hear that nasal
twang emanating from the television even now . . . .
    “ Well, golly, we’re behind
schedule on Joe-Bob’s commode-o-cycle, and we’ll have to take
shortcuts in order to get it done in time for the big contest in
three days. So, I’m a-weldin’ the seat lid to the carburetor and
hopin’ for the best. Meanwhile, Billy-John has gone and run a nail
gun up through his nose . . . again . . . and we’ll have to lose another two hours
taking him to the Urgi-Care in Buckland County to have his
sideburns sewed back on straight.”
    Now, I ask you: How many
times do I want to watch the series Modern
Marvels broadcast a show on why a
suspension bridge works without everyone falling off, or a two-hour
special on the story of a submarine that got lost at sea and killed
everyone on board when one tiny part busted off, all because no one
had bothered to watch the show on the history of concrete? What
kind of man watches a show called Major
Engineering Disasters ? On purpose, I mean.
What kind of woman marries such a man? On purpose, I mean.
    Those were rhetorical
questions. Do not answer them. There are no correct
answers.
    I admit that my husband
and I both have somewhat plebeian tastes when it comes to watching
television. Like any decent Pittsburgh blue-collar male, I too
enjoy a good Steelers game, a filthy grub-eating contest on Survivor , and even the
occasional mobster series on HBO. My husband loves these shows even
more than I do, but he always comes back to those
“build-something-from-aluminum-foil-and-toothpicks” shows. It’s
only a matter of time before he starts taking notes during one of
those foil-and-toothpick shows. I swear, if he ever leaves the
confines of that La-Z-Boy and heads off to Home Depot while
mumbling something about remodeling the bathroom with Reynold’s
Wrap, I’m outta here.
    And I’m taking the remote
control with me.
    Oh no . . . I just
remembered that we have ten spare universal remotes in a drawer of
the coffee table, all programmed to work with the TV in case the
other nine break at the same time.
    Curses. Foiled
again
     

Buster’s Last Stand
     
    The generation gap stops
here. I’m cashing in on the video game craze with a game my kids
can master with skills they already have. They grew up blowing into
Nintendo game cartridges to get them to work, so this stuff is
second nature to them. And since